Hopped on my bike in the rain to WWOOF assignment numero deux, a fairly fancy, "eco-friendly" B&B with organic gardens that required my tending. It was maybe a 50k ride, nothing crazy (oh, except the "unsealed" one-lane highways with lots of curves and construction and absolutely no shoulder for a bicycle, but that's nothing to write home about anymore), but enough for sure in the rain. Motueka was the hippie-town pit-stop along the way; charming, good healthy eats, but I have no idea where you'd go to party with new people. Didn't see one bar. Every town-planner in NZ conveniently plops all storefronts along a few blocks of the main street, which makes life easy but not all that exciting (you'll never find that "hidden gem").
Arrived sopping at the B&B and the man of the house offered up a hot shower and a nap in the caravan, my new bedroom. Everyone in NZ has a caravan (i.e. trailer) in their yard. It's not considered unclassy. You can even be a relatively high-end B&B facility and have a caravan out front, out of which will occasionally pop a sweaty, hairy-legged, bleary-eyed American chick in padded bike shorts and smelly socks (why oh why did I only pack 2 pairs).
The B&B stay was marked by general ambivalence. The guy who runs the place is kind of a dick. You know the type - attractive except for his personality, and his personality perhaps dictated by his knowledge that he's attractive. But at the same time he was cool. But still a dick. You know what I mean. He had a hot, bread-winning wife and 2 kids, the youngest with that "little terror" thing goin on. This little dude liked to block my path, throw things at me, and only engage in activity with me when he knew it would make things complicated.
Like, oh, how cute, he wants to carry the compost bucket and go feed the chooks with me. How wholesome and sweet. Yeah, until he lets the sheep into the chickenpen (trust me, you do not want this) and those greedy little puffbags (I'm sorry, I don't care how cute you think they are) start eating all the chickens' food. Have you ever tried chasing a sheep? It is not fluffy and nice. And they are strong! And darty. One of them will have you running in circles while the other goes to town on the food, and don't think that charming little child is interested in going to get pops for help. Or in ever leaving the cage of doom. He's just there to hit the sheep on the head, stand in the pellet dishes, and tug the hens off the eggs they're a-laying because he just doesn't give a fuck about the circle of life.
I hate that kid, and I hate sheep.
The good news was location, location, location. After work was done at 1pm, I was a quick bike ride from Kaiteriteri, a fancy-pants beach and entry point to Abel Tasman, one of the famousist national parks. Oh shit, wouldn't a picture be illustrative here? I'm nervous, but let's try this:
My first picture upload. Just peed my pants a little.
It's a beautiful area - you can't really tell from my pictures (see! cameras can be so frustrating!), but it's golden sands and turquoise water all the way. After a few days in caravan land, I peaced out for a day tramp on the Abel Tasman. Bicycle logistics (it's a bike-free track) lead me to an hour boat ride mid-way up the park's coast, with 7 hours to walk back, catching the last bus to Nelson on a Friday night (the closest "city," and I needed to go out dancing something fierce). The normal day trip sold to tourists is a 4-hour hike. Having learned no lessons, I told the ticket guy that I wanted a "real walk," and he gave me one.
Asshole.
It was a great sense of accomplishment, it was beautiful, and it was the kind of workout that leaves you limping. Hiking your very fastest for 7 hours is not - can I say this? - a walk in the park. The craziness doesn't really set in until about hour 5. That's when you start seeing signs telling you that your destination is still 4 hours away. You will pass other, stressed hikers in the same predicament. Together you will curse the ticket seller who said he could do it in 4 and 1/2 hours (liar), and to ignore the posted times (that part was thankfully true). Then you will stop passing people, and didn't you just round that same corner with the footbridge and the waterfall 5 minutes ago? Are your marbles leaving a trail behind you?
Let it be said that I love these situations. I hope I haven't to this point sounded neurotic. Being in over your head is fantastic. I loved making the bus to Nelson with only 5 minutes to spare. I loved having to go to sleep at 10pm that night instead of dancing because I couldn't move without feeling like I was about to puke. I love it all. I mean, look at this shit! And remember, it's about 90% prettier than any picture I can possibly take at this stage in my life as a non-photographer.
A better camera would show you what New Zealand really looks like. A sunny day here is like when the Wizard of Oz goes from black & white to color. Like when you're a kid and you mess with the contrast knobs on the TV. And a rainy day makes everything look majestic, in cloaks of otherworldly mist.
Being back in Nelson meant being back on official vacation (no more WWOOFing). I hit the famous Nelson Saturday market, whose target demographic is me. I ate all kinds of chocolate and cheese (the Maasdam aged reserve was siicck, from the only cheesemaker in NZ who ages that kind); I bought socks and underwear made for hiking (stays dry, doesn't ride up your butt, respectively).
I visited the InfoCenter and let them plan my remaining days on the Golden Coast. These InfoCenters are amazing and deserve their own paragraph. They are a free service in every town, no matter how small, staffed with people who will happily answer any question you have and book your bus tickets, boat rides, campsite, whatever you need. They'll have the tour bus stop at the door of your hostel to pick you up in the morning. Once again, evidence that the kiwis really want you here, and they want your life to be cake.
At the InfoCenter I met an American named Lynn, a queer social worker in her 30s traveling alone (so clearly we had to meet). My first on-the-road friend! I'd heard about these. (I'd been a bit antisocial til this point, avoiding sharing rooms and hanging at the backpacker bars.) She told me about a beer fest that afternoon, in a huge park where we rocked it with 5 other single traveling ladies our age. It was fantastic. Then I paid a $25 cover for a drum & bass night (I would've thrown down a hundy at this point, so dying was I for a dance experience). Even the small beach town of Nelson lived up to NZ's reputation for solid tech tunes; it was totally worth it, great dj, great video art, great crowd. My legs, knees, ankles and feet - still sore from the tramping - protested, while my ears and heart said, "shhhhhhh, it's all good."
(Richmond is a close burb of Nelson, and home to my estuary. I would also like to give Mike Prince credit for reminding me, when in doubt, that it is, in fact, "all good.")
And all good it will continue to be in chapter 3 of "Spring Break, Suckas!," when our heroine heads to Takaka and further hippie paradise. Til then, sending love from blueberry land (or, as Sarah so geniusly calls it, the land of the BLOOBS).
This last bit's for mom, who apparently is reading my blog, and is always requesting pictures of her progeny. Stole some from Laurin:
In the car with Laurin, Rafael, and Rafael's surfboard, coming home from our weekend at the beach for Mandi's birthday.
Playing Uno with Lina (she's back in town this weekend for Climate Camp so I get to see her again, sweetass*!)
*"Sweetass" is a very common word out here, used frequently by your milkman and your gramma. For serious.
Trampoline dancing at the BLOOB farm. It's how we do.
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